


Magic

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5309426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I hope you enjoy this, recip, and hope it fits your prompt and head canon of Curt/Arthur as a mature relationship with potential - even if this is just a teeny moment of how they might start out, post-movie.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryvanilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this, recip, and hope it fits your prompt and head canon of Curt/Arthur as a mature relationship with potential - even if this is just a teeny moment of how they might start out, post-movie.

Arthur’s exhausted. It really _was_ a crap day, and his performance in bed was probably crap, too, but he’s warm now, his spine still tingling with pleasure and whatever post-orgasm hormones are coursing through his system making him even more tired than he already was. He shuts his eyes. Curt’s hand is solid and reassuring on his arm.

Their meeting was like any of the daydreams Arthur has forced himself to outgrow, or tried to: Arthur standing alone in the park like the loser that he is, only for Curt to come up behind him, also a little bit shy, and start talking. He must have recognized the pin on the jacket slung over Arthur’s arm before he recognized Arthur himself.

That unlikely encounter led to drinks at a nearby hole in the wall, then a cab ride back to Curt’s apartment for sex. Really: the stuff of teenage daydreams. For all Arthur can feel Curt beside him, he’s still a little afraid that if he drifts off, he might just wake up alone in his own flat, or at his desk at work, instead.

The thought is stupid, of course, almost as stupid as thinking that it’s _right_ for him and Curt to be together someday, thatsomehow they’d just kept missing each other before despite being meant to be lovers or whatever. Arthur suppresses the thought. He’s _much_ too old for that; he wouldn’t admit to having thought like that ten years ago when he was seventeen, let alone now. Still, he’s just full of stupid ideas tonight – this afternoon – as usual, really, and he yawns and drifts off at last to that thought. He can’t help himself.

He’s definitely not alone in his flat or at his work desk when he blinks his eyes open again. If he were, he wouldn’t be hearing guitar chords rippling for a moment, then falling suddenly silent with a low and toneless buzz. _Yes,_ he thinks, relieved.

“Sorry,” Curt’s voice says from somewhere near the bed. “I just thought of something, and – you looked like you were out cold.”

Arthur opens his eyes and pulls himself into a sitting position. Curt is cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, stark naked, with his guitar in his lap; he slides it away and grins at Arthur.

“Thought I wore you out.”

Arthur smiles, too, as Curt clambers back into bed.

“You didn’t have to stop,” Arthur says. “Playing, I mean. I can go.”

But he reaches his hand out toward Curt as he says it. Curt shakes his long hair, then leans in to kiss Arthur again, slow and tender. Arthur lets his eyes fall shut as he kisses back, his shoulders taut and his pulse quickening.

Curt doesn’t answer right away when they part. Instead he puts his hand on Arthur’s. The gesture almost makes Arthur relax.

“You could stay a bit,” Curt says at last, turning his face away. “I was gonna order pizza.”

Arthur stifles a laugh. It sounds a little bit like a date, being invited to stay for dinner when he was sure he’d just have to leave, awkwardly, as if he’d never been there in the first place. He knows enough about mediocre hook ups to know how they tend to end, and he hadn’t expected Curt to do anything except get rid of him as soon as he could.

“Great,” Arthur says. He bites back the phrase _if you’ll have me_ , and puts one hand to Curt’s face. Curt turns back to him, though not before Arthur realizes that he’d been looking over at the pin on Arthur’s jacket once again. Arthur bites his lip.

“You can have it back, if you like,” he says. He’d hate to part with _anything_ that reminds him of Curt – he really is that unhealthy in his crush, or obsession – but he wouldn’t deny Curt anything, either, and besides, he doesn’t think Curt actually wants it back.

Curt shrugs before lying down.

“Nah. I want you to have it. I’m glad I gave it to you.”

Arthur grins, satisfied – that he was right, and that Curt thought or thinks him worth something, however little it is. “Well. Me too.”

He turns so that he’s almost facing Curt, who pulls him closer into a smoky kiss. When the kiss ends Curt smirks at him.

“Glad you didn’t choke on it, either.”

There’s a boyish pride in his voice. He needs an audience, Arthur realizes, and didn’t stick around long enough to get one last time. Of course he’s eager to draw more attention to his little trick. Arthur wonders if he should laugh or roll his eyes.

“I nearly did. That was quite some sleight of hand you used.”

Curt’s beaming from ear to ear now. _Good_ , Arthur thinks.

“I used to do magic tricks, you know,” Curt says. “As a kid. Little sleight of hand things that I got from this book I found.” He hesitates. Arthur takes his hand and looks down at their twined fingers.

Then Curt goes on, mumbling, “I wanted to make people look at me.”

And Arthur does look at him, open-mouthed with admiration and some surprise, and vaguely tense, too. Curt Wild doesn’t talk about his early life. He’s talked in broad strokes about the dull, narrow trailer park community, with the wolves quite literally at the door, and he’s alluded to the shock treatment in a couple songs and grudging interviews, but that’s about it. Arthur knows this because he spent long years memorizing those facts and interviews the way he knows his own name, or the way he once memorized Curt Wild or Brian Slade song lyrics with unhealthy accuracy.

“Wow,” Arthur says. It seems safer than any actual sympathy would be.

Curt’s face darkens just the same. He shifts so that he is looking away from Arthur and draws his hand back.

“What is it?” Arthur asks quickly.

Curt turns to the bedside table and rifles through the clutter for his cigarettes and lighter. Arthur’s stomach sinks. He wishes he weren’t like this, wishes he could have a conversation without overthinking everything or being sure that he has said the wrong thing and ruined it. _Whatever_ it _is._

“If you write about this, I’ll fucking kill you,” Curt says, but there’s a hint of laughter in his voice, contained but very much present. Arthur exhales. This is something that he can fix.

“Of course I won’t,” he says. “Really. You can trust me.”

He hesitates, keeps his hands to himself for a bit too long before he plucks up the courage to touch Curt again.

“I wouldn’t have dared – try to make anyone look at me,” he adds. “Or at anything that I did. Even as a kid, I mean…”

Curt lights a cigarette, lies down on his back, and puffs away at it. He doesn’t reply until he has almost finished it.

“But don’t people?” he asks at last. “Read your stuff or whatever. Look at the things you – you know – create.”

Arthur winces as he thinks of the rubbish he churns out for work, and of the dozen or so short stories and novels he has started during off hours waiting to meet sources or, more rarely, to meet dates. He’s crumpled most of those pieces up and chucked them in the bin. Who’d look at anything of his, anything _he_ thought was interesting or important?

And yet, he _is_ still working in a job that requires an audience, of sorts. Of course that’s what Curt’s getting at. He certainly doesn’t know much else about Arthur – his hobbies or ideas or insecurities.

“I guess,” Arthur says.

Curt’s mouth twists into a grin around the cigarette. When he finishes it he turns onto his side again and reaches for Arthur. His eyes are dark, pupils wide with lust like they were before, when he picked Arthur up in that park; he leans in closer to crush his mouth to Arthur’s in a bruising kiss. Arthur wraps his body around Curt’s instinctively, returning the kiss. _Yes_.

“How ‘bout another go?” Curt asks when they part for breath. There’s a teasing gleam in his eyes, now. “That pizza place’ll  still be open later…”

And Arthur doesn’t care that he _was_ tired, or that he’s supposed to be finishing the stupid story that’s been driving him mad all week – he’ll call in sick tomorrow if he has to.

“Just promise you’ll tell me more about those magic tricks after,” he says, because why shouldn’t he _try_ and take the chance on getting to know Curt? Curt has wanted to talk to him so far. “Off the record, of course.”

Curt sniggers, rolling his eyes.

“Maybe I’ll show you,” he says, pushing Arthur down for another kiss.


End file.
